


Back on Track: the Dallon Weekes story

by Monsieur_Grenouille



Series: The Census [2]
Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Backstory, Dark, M/M, Sad Ending, Suicide, Talking To Dead People, Weekman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24321769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsieur_Grenouille/pseuds/Monsieur_Grenouille
Summary: When Dallon was a kid, he could talk to ghosts. Well, one ghost.PREQUEL TO "CENSUS BOYS AND SENSORY OVERLOADS!!!!"
Relationships: Ryan Seaman/Dallon Weekes
Series: The Census [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759030
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I said I’d wait til 9 kudos, but the world doesn’t work that way. I got impatient, I had an idea, so I wrote. You’ll just have to deal with it. Less people will be as dedicated dedicated dedicated to this as last time; the fandoms are dying and weekman is so unpopular :/

“Ma’am, your kid is weird,” the psychologist admits to Mrs. Weekes, “There’s no other way to put it. He can talk to the ghost of someone who—according to the Census papers—existed long ago.” He folds his hands and sighs, “According to Dallon’s descriptions of, uh... _Ryan_ , he has teal hair with the sides shaved, wears floral shirts, and has a voice deeper than most people he knows. These descriptions line right up with the real Ryan Seaman, who had no significance or popularity. He was just a citizen who died.” 

Mrs. Weekes shifts uncomfortably in the office chair. “Maybe... maybe that’s a coincidence. You know kids these days and how–“ 

The psychologist leans forward behind his desk. “Frankly, ma’am, _kids these days_ are normal and capable of sitting still. Your son has ADHD, something we eradicated 250 years ago. He also has slight schizophrenia. He can’t be cured unless we...” he takes his finger and makes a slicing motion across his neck. Mrs. Weekes gasps softly. 

“Sir, you can’t do that! He’s only eleven!” she objects. 

The psychologist shrugs. “Unless your son can prove he’s useful, then we have no choice. Can he raise a child?” 

Mrs. Weekes opens and closes her mouth. She doesn’t know what to say to him, since this could make or break Dallon’s life. She can’t kill her only son just for having an imaginary ghost friend. Even if that ghost was a random person at some point, and has no relation to her family’s history. “Y-Yes,” she flinches, “Dallon can raise a child.” 

The psychologist grins and clicks his pen. “Great! We’ll give you a call after all the paperwork is done. Have a nice day, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Weekes gives a phony smile as she says goodbye to him and walks out of the office. Dallon sits in one of the waiting room chairs, talking to open air. It breaks her heart, but at least Dallon has a friend. 

* * *

Dallon knew Ryan was dead. He wasn’t stupid. People don’t just hover off the ground and have an opacity of 85%, then pass through walls like everything’s a goddamn waterfall. No one else saw Ryan except for Dallon, which also gave more than a few hints. It didn’t stop the boy from having questions. 

“How do ghosts dye their hair?” he asks one day. He’s seven years old, and still getting to know Ryan. Ryan died when he was little, so he’s still growing up as a ghost. He seems to be Dallon’s age, though, and acts that way. I guess the only thing that sets him apart from other seven year olds is that he’s dead. 

Ryan reaches up to touch his own teal hair. “My hair’s dyed?” he says with wonder and amusement, “Like me, I guess.” 

Dallon twitches his wrist and cocks his head. “You didn’t answer me, Ry. How’d your hair get like that?” He gestures to Ryan’s hair vaguely. 

Ryan shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s supposed to be brown, but it was blue on the day I died so it didn’t change.” He stared at the floor of their wooden cabin. It was in pretty nice shape, especially considering how Dallon had built it himself over the last summer. There’s a main room with two chairs—one specifically for Dallon and one specifically for Ryan—and a dirt floor. They keep bags of rice in the corner to use as beds. 

Dallon has a real home with a real mom and dad, but sometimes he has to run away and escape their criticisms. 

“ _Dallon, sit still. You’re making us look like bad parents when you twitch.”_

_“Dallon, stop talking about ghosts. They don’t exist and you just want attention.”_

_“You’re good at everything except what you’re expected to do. Just sit still, don’t think about ghosts, and be a normal kid.”_

The most painful part’s when he can’t tell them he lost Ryan. Sometimes the ghost wanders off and gets lost, and Dallon feels like everything’s caving in on him. He can’t breathe, and his twitching goes out of control. He also mutters under his breath. Sometimes he hears screaming sounds, sometimes he hears his parents arguing or yelling at him. It just gets to be too much but he can’t tell anyone why he’s anxious. 

Ryan always apologizes and comforts him when they find each other again. Not that they can touch each other, but they’d find ways. One way was that Ryan can use his “ghost powers” to make an object hover over to Dallon, like a blanket or some sensory object he could find. Dallon often rubbed things against his face to get a good feel of it, which Ryan told him was normal for having ADHD.

Ryan’s pretty smart when it comes to Dallon’s struggles. 

One day when they were eleven, Dallon was kicked out of his house and given a small child to take care of. The kid is five years old and has wide brown eyes, black tufts of hair on his head. Dallon’s glad he’d been spending more time taking care of himself, since it taught him how to be more grown up. “Okay, Ryan,” he says to the ghost, “Do you know what I should teach him to do?” 

Ryan sits cross legged on his chair. “I don’t know,” he shrugs, “when I was a kid, the first thing I learned was how to read.” 

Brendon—the kid—speaks up. “Who are you talking to?” 

Dallon freezes up. He improvises by chuckling and saying, “No one, sweetie. Just... talking to myself.” 

Ryan scoffs, “Rude.” Dallon shoots him a look before turning all attention to Brendon. He tells the kid about how they’d be living together now, and how Brendon could trust him. 

“My name is Dallon Weekes,” the older boy says, “What do you want to call me?” 

Brendon smiles and runs forward to hug Dallon’s tall legs. “Daddy!” he enthuses. Ryan snorts and hides his smirk from a blushing Dallon. Brendon looks so happy with it, but Dallon couldn’t comfortably let that slide. 

“No,” he denies, running a hand through Brendon’s dark hair. “I don’t want you to call me Daddy.” 

Brendon looks up at him, confused. “Father?” 

Ryan hums, “I like the sound of that.” 

Dallon doesn’t. “Well, if you’re gonna call me father, why not go straight ahead and call me Mr. Weekes?” 

Brendon hugs his legs. “Master Weekes!” 

Ryan gets up off the table and hovers over to Dallon. He whispers in his ear even though he knew the kid couldn’t possibly hear him. “Oh, look, you’re his master. Do you think he’ll call you Sir?” 

Dallon turned his head and bared his teeth at Ryan. If only the kid couldn’t hear him, either. The thought crossed his mind that he’d have to clean up his language, but it’s not like he swore much to begin with. He’d also have to stop talking to Ryan. 

He... he’d have to stop talking to Ryan. “Ry...” he whispers. Ryan reaches down to hold his hand instinctively, but it just passes through. All Dallon feels is a light breeze. He turns his head to gaze at his friend. “I love you,” he barely whispers. 

”I love you too. I’m not going to leave, but I’ll try not to be funny so you don’t laugh.”

“No more levitating objects,” Dallon murmurs, “Even when I’m having a panic attack. Just talk to me, then.”

“I know.” Ryan bites his lip and does the closest he can do to kissing Dallon. He hovers slightly higher, then aligns their mouths and leans in. Dallon stands still so he doesn’t look weird, but he closes his eyes. He can tell Ryan’s kissing him from the chill on his lips and the hand shaped cold spot on his cheek. Ryan pulls back a few seconds later. “You owe me something now,” he jokes. It doesn’t take the weight off the uncomfortable situation, but it makes Dallon smile. 

“I have to, uhm, take care of the kid now. You can do anything you want; just come back before it gets dark. Please.” He gives his boyfriend a sad look. 

Ryan chuckles and tucks an electric blue hair behind his ear. “Growing up sucks, doesn’t it?” 

“Y-Yeah.” 

“I know I’m not much of a help with this since I’m still eleven and haven’t raised a child yet, but I think you should do what you think your parents _should’ve_ done all along.” 

Dallon feels his voice get caught in his throat. “So I should love him?” 

Ryan nods. “Exactly.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a wreck. It’s not as good as the last one.

Over time, Dallon gets better at taking care of Brendon. He still twitches and gets panic attacks, but he doesn’t talk to his boyfriend as much. Ryan still makes side comments that are actually pretty funny, though. Dallon tries to ignore them, even when Ryan stands really close as he says them. The tall boy turns out to be very good at teaching reading, writing, and math, as he found a pile of workbooks at a bookstore and bought them for Brendon to learn from. 

He taught Brendon to love music. With the record-player he could find, he’d play The Beatles and Queen in the background as Brendon fell asleep at night. After the first two years, Brendon was the smartest seven year old that Dallon had ever met. Ryan was impressed too. 

“Master Weekes!” the little boy chirps one evening when Dallon’s practicing bass, “I wrote a song! Master Weekes, I wrote a song!” He looks up at Dallon with a sparkle in his eyes. He’s seen Dallon play bass and write songs and he looks up to Dallon more than anyone in the world. Dallon puts his bass down to give the boy his full attention. 

“Do you want to sing it to me?” he asks softly. 

Brendon nods excitedly. “Yes! And I found a guitar by the home for Census Boys!” He holds up a six stringed instrument by the neck. Dallon's eyes widen at the mention of the Census, and his breathing quickens, and Ryan can see his boyfriend’s pupils shrink. The Census made Dallon raise a child. The Census makes him hide from everyone. The Census made Ryan his only willing friend. But he can’t control Brendon’s view on it. 

“Calm down,” Ryan murmurs in his ear. “It’s okay.” 

Dallon twitches in his chair. “Back on track, back on track. One two three four five six seven eight nine! Stand up for what you believe in until proven wrong. Proven wrong, proven wrong, back on track, back on track, shut up shut up just leave me alone...” his fingers seem petrified, as does his whole body, except for his neck’s jerky movements and wrist moving suddenly.

Brendon’s eyes go wide as he runs over to Dallon and puts his seven-year-old hands around his waist. “Master Weekes...” he sobs, “Don’t die... don’t die... I'm sorry, Master Weekes. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please be okay.” 

Ryan watches Brendon’s reaction and takes a short breath. This kid’s going to be traumatized. He stands behind Brendon and prays to god that the kid can hear him somehow. “It’s okay, Brendon. He’s not going to die. He’s just a little scared right now. Why don’t you strum the guitar for him? He calms down with music.” 

He calms down with music. Ryan runs to the record player and breaks the one promise he made to Dallon. He uses his levitating magic to take a Beatles record out of the box and places it on the record player. He pushes down the needle, too. Brendon sees the first part out the corner of his eye, then gives it his full attention with terror. Ryan hears him whisper under his breath, “So that’s who he’s talking to.” 

* * *

“He’s onto us,” Ryan whispers one evening as Dallon’s brushing his teeth. 

Dallon spits into the bucket they call a sink and turns to the ghost on his bed. “It’s not a big deal, is it? We’ve been raising him to accept everyone. So what, I can see ghosts? It’s not like he’d run away. He loves mysterious things. I never got to hear his song, though. Remind me tomorrow and I–“ 

Ryan cuts him off. “Dallon, you don’t understand the weight of the situation. You have talked about me to three people, so they know of my existence. Counting you, I’m known by four people. If five people hear about me before you die, I’m done for. I won’t exist. I truly die.” 

Dallon’s eyes widen. He was not expecting this. “Wh-Why me?” he asks. 

Ryan explains to him how their souls are bonded together from a pact that was made while the Census was coming to power and eradicating mental disorders. The pact stated that the last person with ADHD would help guide the next person with ADHD. “The same goes for other mental disorders like BPD, bipolar, PTSD, and dyslexia.” 

Dallon sits down next to Ryan. “I have two questions.” 

“I have two answers.” 

Dallon rolls his eyes. “First question: am I actually schizophrenic or is it just the pact?” 

Ryan shifts his weight. “You _are_ a schizophrenic. I was surprised when you could hear and see me, since I was only supposed to give you pushes in the right directions. For example, the kid with OCD can’t see her guide. She just feels safer than she would if she didn’t have her ghost. You feel safer with me, don’t you?” 

Dallon nods hesitantly. He does feel safer with Ryan. “Second question,” he begins, “Why am I just hearing this now?” 

Ryan flinches. This was going to be a hard pill to swallow. “I didn’t think it’d come to this point.” 

The next day, Brendon asks about the things he saw. “There was like a floating record and you were shaking and nothing made sense and you looked like you were dying but now you’re not dead. What happened, Master Weekes?” He hugs Dallon close by the waist. The incident scarred him, worrying him about Dallon dying and leaving him. It was the first time he’d been exposed to trauma.

Dallon strokes his hand through Brendon’s hair. He doesn’t know what to say. “Um, well, sometimes when things happen, they scare people. And when things get scary, we don’t know what to do. Did you feel that way?” 

Brendon sniffles and nods. “I thought you were dying.” He tightens his grip on the guardian. He buries his face in Dallon’s new brown jacket protectively and whispers _don’t leave me_ over and over.

The sight breaks the older boy’s heart. “Brendon,” he coos, “I’m not going to die.” 

Brendon releases a shaky breath and sobs, “But everyone dies. We can’t escape it. The sun doesn’t just stop in the middle of the day because it’s scared of going down. It knows there’s a darker side that it must go to, regardless of hopes and dreams. You’re going to die, I’m going to die. The only way that it can feel easy is if we die together.” 

What the hell? Dallon has to get this kid some help somehow. Seven year olds aren’t supposed to say—or even _begin_ to think—things along those lines. “Things aren’t easy, though. You’ll have to go on without me at some point.” 

Brendon looks up to meet his eyes. “What if you die because of something I did? I won’t be able to forgive myself.” 

Dallon smiles weakly and says the only thing that comes to mind. “Brendon, if you’re gonna be the death of me, that’s how I wanna go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell what album I was listening to while writing this?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry these chapters are so weird and confusing. I just have ideas and I don’t know how to write them. When I finally write them, they’re really simple and short. That’s why this one sucks more than the other. Also because prequels are just fated to be horrible.

When Brendon turns twelve, he begins to understand Dallon more. Dallon notices, glad when Brendon deals with the panic attacks easily. At fourteen, Dallon’s starting to notice more independency with Brendon, which breaks his heart in a loving way. Brendon doesn’t need much comfort, nor does he need Dallon to hold him close during a thunderstorm. The house becomes worn down with every storm, but Dallon lets it happen. Brendon’s drifting away.

“Brendon?” Dallon ducks his head into Brendon’s room. “Do you need any help with your math?” 

Brendon doesn’t even look up at him as he replies, “No. I’ve got this.” 

Dallon tries again. “What about science?” 

Brendon shakes his head. “I’m all caught up.” He pushes up his reading glasses and continues writing in his workbook.

Dallon feels tears in his eyes. He just wants to spend some time with his boy. He doesn’t want to grow apart from him or have a barrier between them. “Is there... is there anything you want to tell me? I’ll listen to you.” He clears his throat and straightens his tie. 

The teenager sighs and looks up at him. “Is there something _you_ want to tell _me_?” He smiles softly. Dallon nods hesitantly and brings his chair over. Brendon closes his workbook and sets it off to the side. “What’s up?” 

Dallon bites his lip. There are so many things he wants to say. About how being a “father” is hard and how Brendon’s growing up too fast, about how he’s scared every second Brendon’s gone and how he’d do anything for Brendon if it means safety. But he can’t say those things; he doesn’t know how. So instead, he and Brendon are just staring at each other in an awkward silence. 

Brendon fidgets nervously. “First off,” he begins, “Are you okay?” 

Dallon nods. “I’m just a little worried about you.” He scratches at his neck and tries to stop all the thoughts coursing through his mind. The thoughts only become stronger, until he closes his eyes and reaches out for Brendon’s wrist. Brendon lets him hold his arm. 

“Just talk,” the teenager whispers. “Don’t hide any thoughts.” 

Dallon nods as all his raging thoughts fly from his lungs to the air. “I’m worried that you might not need me anymore because you’ve been very independent recently. It’s like we’re just two people who live in the same house instead of a family. You’re starting to isolate yourself more and more, which shows that you’re depressed. If there’s something I did—or something I should’ve done—you shouldn’t be afraid to tell me.” 

Brendon waits a few seconds to process. “Master Weekes, I’m supposed to be this way. I’m at the age of independency. Now is around the time you’d throw me out of your house and force me to have a life of my own. I know you haven’t been in public in a long time, but that’s how things are now. Biologically, I don’t need you anymore.” 

Dallon swears he can hear his whole world shatter. Brendon doesn’t need him anymore. He’s not the little kid he used to be, but the years went by so fast that Dallon didn’t notice. The older boy buries his face in his hands. Tears slip down his face in shaky breaths. “Of course,” he shudders, “I should’ve known.” 

Ryan stood behind him, also confused. “When I was alive, people were released at eighteen or nineteen (depending on the laws). How come I’m just hearing about fourteen year old adults now?” 

Brendon sits awkwardly and tries to comfort Dallon. “Master Weekes, I'm not going anywhere. Not until you tell me to leave. No offense, but I can’t leave you when you’re unstable like this. You need people to help you.” 

Dallon nods, but still cries into his hands. It’s really hard when the person you’ve been raising for almost ten years tells you that they biologically don’t need you, but will stay because you’re the insane one. It’s even harder when it’s true. As much as he’d like it, Ryan can’t take care of him. He’s just supposed to make him feel safer on Earth. They weren’t supposed to fall in love, they weren’t supposed to raise a child, and now the child is supposed to leave them. 

“Master Weekes, what’s wrong?” Brendon gets out of his chair and drapes his arms over Dallon’s shoulders. 

Dallon whimpers softly and shakes his head. “It’s not fair,” he sobs, “First, I don’t know what to do with you, and now that I feel like a good father, you’re going away.” 

Brendon shushes him. “No, I’m not leaving you. I’m going to stay. I’m going to stay, Master Weekes. Not just to take care of you, but because I have no one else I trust half as much as you.” He strokes Dallon’s hair. Dallon nuzzles against him. 

“I’m still your father figure, though. I have authority,” he murmurs. “You just have the ability to calm me down.” 

Brendon chuckles softly. “Yeah. Is there anything else I should know?” 

_Yes. So many things. Things so beyond your understanding that I don’t even understand them._ “I... I love you,” Dallon admits, “And I’d do anything for your health.” 

Brendon kisses his forehead. “Me too. Whether near or far, I am always yours.” 

A silence passes between them. Dallon’s still trying to get a grip on Brendon’s independency. In a sense, he feels betrayed. In another sense, he’s proud of his child for growing up to be such a blessing. How did he let the years slip by, though? He should’ve noticed changes in weather or height. Maybe he’d understand more if it was someone else’s kid.

* * *

Ryan became less and less important when Brendon started taking better care of Dallon. After all, Dallon needs someone who can hold his arm assuringly or make him feel warm. He didn’t need a ghost who isn’t even supposed to talk to him. It made Ryan lonely. “D-Dallon?” he asks one day, when Brendon’s out with his friend—a boy from the local Census school. 

Dallon stretches and sits across from him. It’s how they’ve always had conversations. “What’s wrong?” 

Ryan hesitates. “Do you need me anymore?” 

Dallon doesn’t know what to say. “O-Of course I need you, Ry. Why would you–“ 

“Because you have Brendon, that’s why! He can do way more than me. I’m just someone to talk to now. I can’t even serve my purpose anymore, since you have someone who can give you the help you need. You can relate to him, you can feel comfortable with him, and you can live with the satisfaction that you’re not crazy for having him.” 

Dallon twitches with fear. “What are you... what are you saying? Please don’t leave me, Ry. Not til I’m dead.” 

Ryan sighs. “And how soon is that, huh? Clearly, Brendon’s going to kill himself when you die, so when do you want _him_ to die?” 

Dallon freezes. He’s thought about that before. “I-I-I don’t know. I want him to live a long time.” 

Ryan’s clearly frustrated with him. “That’s a long time for me to be just a useless secret you can’t tell the person you love most. The only person you’ve talked to for years. When does it end, Dallon?” 

Dallon raises his voice slowly. “What are you trying to say? Do you want me to die or do you want me to tell Brendon?” 

Ryan stands up out of his chair. “I don’t know what I want! I just want to more than just a dead guy watching someone do my job.” 

“Why do you want your job so much?” 

“Because I get to spend time with the only person I’ve ever truly loved! I love you, Dallon. I know we’ve been together for years, but I don’t know if you know how much you mean to me. You mean a lot, okay? And I’d do anything if it meant I could touch you or kiss you. I’m sick of this... this... this barrier.” 

Dallon thinks for a second. “I want to get rid of this barrier, too,” he whispers eventually. “I need to.” 

Ryan understands immediately. “Dallon, I didn’t mean...” 

“I know you didn’t mean that. That’s why I said it.” 

“You don’t need to kill yourself, though. Maybe just take a moment to process this. I was just blowing off steam; I wasn’t telling you that you need to do anything.” 

“I know, I know. Brendon’s old enough to take care of himself. He’s proven it.” 

“Dallon, no. You don’t know what you’re doing. Just take a second to think.” 

Dallon runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking for a while. Maybe... maybe it’s time I stop thinking. I’ll wait a few weeks until the next time I’m in public. Then, I’ll get a little help from the people who’ve been tracking me my whole life.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry...

Dallon has never been more certain of anything in his life. He’s written down a plan, one that can fool anyone. He’ll have a panic attack in public, forcing his imperfections to be known and his existence to be terminated. It’ll look like an accident instead of a therapeutic chain of events. 

One day, while he’s on the way to taking Brendon to the library in order to find the next higher reading level, Dallon closes his eyes and thinks about his childhood. The way his father would injure him and ridicule him, or how he was never enough for his mother. Back then, getting good grades seemed to be the only escape from the harsh reality he lived in. He should’ve felt lucky to have only eleven years of torture, but it was still enough time to do damage. 

Damage to his brain and views on people. Once he was given Brendon, the weight of responsibility nearly crushed him. He couldn’t talk to the only person who made sense in his life, since that person made the least sense in others’ lives. He wasn’t forced to completely change himself in order to raise a child who would just grow up and leave him. 

When he thought he’d make it far, he always knew he’d be wrong. It just didn’t make sense for someone so misunderstood and so restricted to be happy. He was in love with a ghost, for Christ’s sake. Everything he did was wrong, too. Talking to Ryan? Wrong. Not being able to focus? Wrong. Having frequent and uncontrollable panic attacks? Wrong. Nothing he did made sense to everyone. 

It’s almost as if he was meant to die. 

In front of the library, all of his thoughts pulled together and broke apart, stabbing his mind like thousands of tiny swords. There’s no turning back now. Ryan was standing next to him for the whole trip, guiding him like he was supposed to. Dallon’s chest constricted and he could feel the words start to pour from his lips. 

“Back on track, back on track. One two three four five six seven eight nine. Stand up, sir. Always stand up for what you believe in until proven wrong. Proven wrong, proven wrong, back on track, back on track, shut up shut up just leave me alone...” 

He feels unsteady on his feet because—unlike this one—all his panic attacks had happened while sitting down in a chair. He needs weight below him. Suddenly, he feels his weight tip over and crash onto the street. He’s shaking and twitching, muttering whatever comes to mind. Brendon falls to his knees and tries to get Dallon to snap out of it. It’s not working this time, since the only thing Dallon can really focus on is the words he’s muttering. 

“It was planned like this. Brendon can take care of himself. I’m so proud of Brendon. It won’t always be like this. I’m going soon. I hope Brendon knows I love him. I hope Brendon knows that this isn’t his fault...” 

A patroller lady comes by and starts asking Brendon questions about the taller boy. Dallon feels Brendon’s arms around him protectively. Through glimpses of reality, he can make out some of Brendon’s words. “...I know he’s crazy but I love him...” 

Dallon gathers all his strength to whisper in Brendon’s ear, “It’s time. I’m not able to take care of you anymore. Let go.” He feels like a jerk for saying all this, but it’s what has to happen. He’ll do anything to die, at this point. Even if it means breaking Brendon’s heart like glass then stepping on the shards, he knows that Brendon is strong enough to make it work. Plus, he has that Census boy. Dallon got a good first impression from him. 

Someone tries to rip Dallon away from Brendon, and they succeed. Dallon shouts a few things to Brendon, sort of as a goodbye. First came the motto of the original anti Census: “ _Stand up, stand fast, stand firm. But never, and I mean never, stand down._ ” 

Then Brendon said “I love you,” drawing the real last words from Dallon. 

“I love you... more than I meant to say.” 

The patrollers throw him into an ambulance, Ryan following, and slam the doors shut. Dallon’s not even on a stretcher. He braces himself as the main doctor takes some anesthetics and forces them into Dallon’s system. “This won’t kill you,” she whispers, “But it’ll make killing you easier for both of us.” 

* * *

Dallon wakes up in a dark room, tied to a chair with everything but his mouth constricted. He panics for a few seconds, wondering how and when he got there, then remembers what happened. He wanted this. Brendon was probably at home, taking out his anger. That’s okay, though. Brendon is strong enough to make it through the loss of a loved one. 

A man emerges from the shadows of the room, pistol in hand. He must be the assassin designated to terminate Dallon. Dallon decides to introduce himself. “My name is Dallon Weekes,” he says calmly, “But you know that. I’ve been a subject of the Census for... oh, I don’t know how long. I’m that schizophrenic guy who took care of the kid?” 

The assassin rolls his eyes. “Most people don’t make conversation.” 

Dallon laughs. “I’m not most people. Isn’t that why you’re killing me?” 

The assassin furrows his eyebrows. “Won’t you shut up?” 

“No.” Dallon objects. 

He feels a breeze under his hand. “Come on,” Ryan whispers from next to him. “You know that it didn’t have to be this way.” 

Dallon gives him a look. “I know, I know. Just relax. This is the worst part.” 

Ryan sighs, “You had so much to live for...” 

“But I also had so much I couldn’t stand. I guess one of the sides had to outweigh the other, huh?” Dallon chuckles sardonically as he heard the cock of a gun. 

“Who are you talking to, Weekes?” the Census assassin growled. “And why are you so relaxed?” 

Dallon smiles weakly. “I’m talking to myself, dear. I’m relaxed because no matter what you do, one of us is gonna die today. Will it be me or you?” 

The assassin gripped the pistol in his hand. “You.” 

Dallon sighs contentedly. “Good. That’s what I thought. Don’t hesitate, now. Ask me if I have any last words.” 

The assassin nodded. “Do you have any last words, Dallon Weekes?” 

“Yes, I do. But just so you know, man, I’m not talking to you.” Dallon clears his throat and turns to Ryan. “I’m assuming that when I die, I’ll be able to touch other ghosts, so I have an idea where you put your hand under mine. As I die, I’ll slowly feel you. I’ve always wanted to touch you, so...” 

Ryan nods and puts his hand under Dallon’s.

The assassin stares at him uncomfortably. “Are you done yet?” 

Dallon nods. “Goodbye, people.” He sighs sadly, but also dramatically. “I had fun being a useless product of your controlling methods. Alright, Derek. Shoot me.” 

The assassin rolls his eyes again and finally pulls the trigger. His aim is off so it hits Dallon’s ear instead, but time is still running out. As the tall man screams and swears with pain, Ryan’s hand starts to become more believable. It’s like a faint tickle, or a fuzz. “Ryan...” Dallon chokes out weakly. 

Ryan stands close to him, holding a new sense of body heat. “What, Dallon? What’s going on?” he urges. 

Dallon coughs and shivers a bit. “I’m cold... but I can feel you.” 

Ryan chuckles. “Yeah, that’s how it is. Does it hurt?” 

Dallon shudders and falls back on the chair. “I c-can feel you,” he murmurs weakly. “Almost completely...” 

“Does it hurt, Dally?” 

Dallon remains silent for a few seconds, laying dead in the chair. Of course. It takes a few seconds to become a ghost. They’re really awkward seconds, since Ryan has so many questions but Dallon’s just leaning against the backrest of a wooden chair while an assassin stands in the corner, cleaning off his pistol. 

After a while, Ryan sees a spirit rise from the body. The spirit is tall, with messy brown hair and icy blue eyes. He’s wearing a brown jacket and dark pants, worn out leather shoes on his feet. He reaches out and pulls Ryan into his arms. He starts to cry, but it’s clearly composed of joy. “R-Ryan...” he sniffles, “I can feel you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the very last installment of this series. I have no further ideas. If you have not read the original work that this is based on, please do. It’s called “Census Boys and Sensory Overloads” And it’s about Brendon falling for Ryan while trying to fight the things he’d been taught about The Census, where Ryan comes from. That one has a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m giving off major dad vibes right now for some reason and I can’t control it. I just want to become the embodiment of fatherliness. I’m calling all my friends “kiddo” or “sport” right now just because it’s making me happy.


End file.
